‘Where everybody knows your name’

The chairs were empty. The air, usually filled with chatter and laughter and the sound of hair dryers humming, was still and silent. The overhead florescent lights were off and daylight filtered in through the slats of the blinds drawn across the two front windows.

The shop was closed. Its founder and proprietor lay in an adjoining room inside the house, losing a battle for her life.

It was a ghostly, empty set. It was almost as difficult to look at and comprehend as the sight of the once-vivacious, beautiful woman made frail and weak from both the cancer that ravaged her body and the drugs administered in a futile attempt to keep it in check.

But the home-based business she ran for 32 years in a converted garage was so much more than a shop. It was the hub of a social network, a tiny place where the paths of people of all ages, from all walks of life, briefly, yet permanently, crossed — a place where secrets were shared, fears allayed and friendships wrought.

Linda Langhorn’s hair salon was a place, like that bar in Boston made famous by a popular TV sitcom, “where everybody knows your name.”

Kountry Kutters was a homey and comfortable throwback — a place were I could chill a little, laugh a little, sometimes even cry a little. Getting my hair cut there was almost secondary. The main thing was seeing Linda and Laura — Laura Freeborn, Linda’s longtime friend and the other hair stylist in the tiny, paneled shop.

Being there was more like a visit with old friends: Linda, Laura, Pat and any one of a host of regulars. There was always coffee or tea and a plate of cookies or cakes to tempt you. There was always plenty of entertainment, too. Funny stories and an interesting parade of people passing through. When your visit was was over, you happened to look better than you did when you stopped in.

I turned my unruly mop over to Linda in 1985, shortly after I took a job as an associate in a Riverhead law firm. For the next 29 years, I was undoubtedly her most uncooperative customer. I didn’t get my hair cut as often I should have. I refused to color my gray. I couldn’t sit still for the styling after she was done trimming. And the minute I walked out of her shop, I’d roughly run my hand through the hair she’d just fussed over, undoing what she’d accomplished.

She loved me anyway.

That’s the thing about being one of Linda and Laura’s customers. No one was just a customer. Everyone was a friend. That sounds so trite, I know. But it’s true. Because that’s just their nature.

How many salons open up just for you on a Sunday, to do your hair on your wedding day? (And serve you a scotch on the rocks to help calm your jittery nerves.) How many stylists visit a dying customer at home, just to make her feel pretty and good about herself — as Linda did for my mom during the last weeks of her life. How many people care so deeply and give so freely as Linda — and Laura? (It’s almost impossible to mention Linda without Laura.)

Even the term “friend” doesn’t quite cut it. Linda (and Laura) treated you like family. My own daughters actually thought they were family — that’s how loving and welcoming these two ladies were. When my kids got a little older, they were surprised to learn that Linda and Laura weren’t really their aunts.

We did become friends. That explains why I have Linda and Butch on video doing the chicken dance at my wedding reception. We saw each other socially from time to time, with and without the husbands. She conspired with my mom, who hated my gray hair, to convince me to color it.

With my husband and daughters, I waited this afternoon in the long line of callers that overflowed the funeral parlor’s space. I couldn’t help but think that Linda would have hated all the attention.

The family around which Linda’s life revolved — Butch, Kelli, Michael and her beloved grandchildren — was assembled at the front of the room. They were no doubt moved by the outpouring of love by the Riverhead community. But they could not have been surprised. After all, they knew Linda better than anyone.

As I emerged from the funeral home into the bright sunshine, I absentmindedly — and roughly — ran my hand through my hair. When I caught myself, I stopped and laughed out loud.

Linda S. Langhorn  (Jan. 29, 1949-Aug. 1, 2014) Rest in peace, dear friend.

Denise Civiletti is the editor and copublisher of RiverheadLocal.com. An award-winning community journalist, she is an attorney and former Riverhead Town councilwoman (1988-1991); she lives in Riverhead with her husband and business partner, Peter Blasl and their two college-student daughters. The views expressed in her blog are hers alone.